I've written a new poem, but don't read it, because it's not a poem anyway, hehe. *Grunts manically as the wind blows diagonally backwards in a pattern of unseeming order*
I am not back. I have likely not decided to stay, and time has not passed since my last ramble of whatnot Whimsy-Tale Of Dusty Reet and Subterranean Fleet. Although I am relatively sane, I do not code my messages to not covert. If I had a Skeleton Key would it not be such Bane to put in these pockets I do not wear, which I wear. If I am sane, then what is not the equivalent to a withering frostweed, in the tundra Wim Hof never went in full clothing, to lose the record of guinness, and walk backwards into the uphill-downwards slide it swings. If it yet seems so clear, why hast thou forfeited what is equivalent of not being me. I will tell not-you it makes absolute sense, as I unread the possible combinations of unsightly clear sky, on a naughty sterile, full-buttoned jacket, where the Navy patch -is- nonexistent.
